Let’s imagine we’re driving along a ribbon of a highway in the far southern regions of the western US of A. The sun, journeying upward at our back, lasers the world into hot white brightness. In the rear, latched in a cubby built to its specs, is today’s task—brimming.
We’ve located our destination (iOverlander!) yet have little idea what exactly we’re looking for. Delays, siren prodigy that they are, tantalize.
Alas, we know one of life’s certainties: When loos brim, delays must not prevail.
On the hunt, we slowly circle the lot, eyes peeled for … What? A sign, “Poo goes here”?
Rarely is a dumpsite so accurately and artistically labeled (not to mention, precisely the type of direction I was seeking).
Inside, we’re rebuffed by a brief, entirely one-sided encounter with a not-so-much-as bemused woman at the counter. At last, we find a manager whose demeanor embodies a smile on only the bottom half of a face. He takes our payment, hands us a receipt with a code, and points out the window—at nothing.
After stuttering our confusion, we’re led to a cement pole with a mounted keypad, next to a shockingly small cover, presumably over a hole in the ground, and a rusted water pump.
We nod thanks, even as the manager smiles with his mouth and turns forlornly to the store. It’s now quite clear what to do with the code.
Turning back to the menacing cover, we ponder. Let’s say we figure out how to open it, what then?
Stick with what you know.
Good idea! We punch in the code. And then recall that Ruby’s still parked on the other side of the curb.
Pull back out and circle the lot or cart the loo on over?
The chance leaving might require retrieving a new code makes the decision easy enough.
Having brought loo hole-side, we bend to separate the bottom briefcase-shaped tank when it hits us that we’re not prepared. We march back to Ruby for antiseptic wipes, paper towels, and a tub of Happy Campers.[1]
Thusly armed, we turn resolutely back to the task.
There, on the other side (the correct side) of the hole sits a massive, shiny black RV, its cash value no doubt equal to our past decade of rent, a large satellite preening on its roof. A man (who has somehow failed to see the tiny loo marking its territory?!) emerges, whistling a happy tune. From above, chatter of lovely wife, giggle of smart children, and happy kvell of fluffy white dog float down like bottled bliss blown out as bubbles. He kneels and pops open a lower side panel on his rig; pulls out a ringed black plastic hose; and turns to find a woman, perturbed/hesitant/crestfallen standing astride a small … potty, is it? … and squaring off from across the hole.
He cocks his head east. “Oh,” he says momentarily. “Were you using this?”
“I already put in my code,” we manage.
“That’s too bad.” He Ned Flanders smiles. “You could’ve used mine. Go ahead. You were here first.”
Now what? “No. You go ahead. You’re probably faster.”
Head cock west. “Why don’t we do it together?”
Gulp.
“You can use my hose.” He nods to a water hose he’s set next to the pump.
We need our own hose?
“And these.” He hands over a pair of surgical gloves.
(We’ll buy a box and a small hose the next day.)
He steps on a protruding rectangular bar on the back of the cover, and up it pops.
Aha.
The toe of his boot in place, he bends, inserts the black hose, and turns to flip a switch on his rig.
As the combined metabolic waste of the bottled bliss producers is sucked below ground, we chat. He sells expensive satellite systems for boondockers. We’re both coming from different events at Quartzite, a desert spot reminiscent of Tattoine—dusty, vibrant, rough around the edges, at once temporary and timeless—drawing nomads, outliers, and sun chasers.
“All done here.” Flanders beams and reverses the process, packing the black hose back in its compartment. “You’re up.”
“Okay?” We slowly loosen the cap on the briefcase.
“I’ll hold this.” He again places the toe of his pristine Timberland on the depressor, popping and holding open the cover.
As we tilt the briefcase, aiming the similar-in-diameter opening toward the hole meant for hoses and pumps, the 2.5 gallons of liquefied contents feel like lead. No turning back. Trying desperately not to shake, we turn the briefcase sideways.
The loo
Complete with candle; tp; and, of course, bidet.
Let’s just say, though it could have been worse, zero splatter outside the hole was a pipe dream. (We’ll soon learn to do it like a champ.)
To our new friend’s credit, he shows no reaction. In response to meek apologies of utter shame, he merely jokes about this being the poopiest part of life on the road and efficiently cleans up with his hose.
“You know, if I were you”—he leans, now aloft in his captain’s chair, tone conspiratorial—“I wouldn’t pay to dump such a tiny bit. Just take it into a Walmart bathroom” (advice we’ll never follow). He waves, and the RV swaggers out of the lot and disappears into bright sunlight.
***
Note: Though I have, since this first dump close to two years ago, become much more adept and comfortable with black-water dumping, this is not the only entertaining moment I’ve had at a dumpsite or, generally, related to the carrying around and proper disposal of one’s personal waste. Aw, vanlife.
***
“To know the way,
we go the way,
we do the way.
The way we do,
the things we do,
it's all there in front of you.
But if you try too hard to see it,
you'll only become confused.
I am me and you are you.
As you can see;
but when you do
the things that you can do,
you will find the way.
The way will follow you.”
― Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh
[1] Happy Campers is a truly spectacular product—no chemicals, no smells, bioliquifies loo contents. Thank you ,saleswoman at the Camping World where I picked up the toilet, who looked at my build and said, “I see how close the toilet is to your bed. You’re going to need some of that,” and pointed to the tub on the shelf. You are on my list of heroes.
Cordelia (RIP) was a friend I met while visiting a dear friend and cousin, who, for the next 7 months, sent me wonderful videos of Cordy's adventures in her silky kitchen window home.
The briefcase and the supplies—paper towels, antiseptic wipes, gloves, bleach, Dr. Bronner’s, and Happy Campers.
A basic blackwater dumpsite—holes in the ground, more or less, whose diameters match that of long plastic tubes through which RV owners pump some 20 gallons of waste. They’re found at RV campsites, national parks, service stations and other shops that cater to RVs, visitor centers here and there, city garbage collector hubs occasionally, and sometimes in super random spots. Fees range from $20 to free. Some have hoses; for others, you need your own. I refuse to pay more the $10 and that only in a pinch. My dump, after all, is pretty small relatively speaking.